


Rebels At Heart

by rikujo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Belgium is the County of Flanders in this, F/M, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Split POV between England and Belgium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikujo/pseuds/rikujo
Summary: In an age where her friends and allies are dictated to her by someone else, the young County of Flanders grows less trusting of her elders by the day and learns to put her faith in her own choices, whatever trouble they may bring.





	Rebels At Heart

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the Brief History of Time event! My claim was '1294-1305, the Franco-Flemish War, England/Belgium + France, with mentions of Netherlands and Scotland'. 
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> Flanders was one of the original twelve peers of France, putting it well within the influence of the French crown while leaving it a semi-autonomous fief. It was also an incredibly rich area, mainly due to its successes in trade. England and Flanders had a centuries strong trading relationship, the weaving industry of Flanders relying heavily on English wool.
> 
> Partly due to this friendship, there was frequently tension between Flanders and the French crown. Not only did Flanders get caught up in any conflict between the two powers, but it had frequent grievances against the French itself.
> 
> In 1214, the Battle of the Bouvines occurred. Flanders, England, and a chunk of the Imperial (Holy Roman) Army fought the French and lost spectacularly, dashing English and Flemish hopes of regaining land taken by the French. That victory would consolidate French power in Europe for the next century.
> 
> Please also note that other relevant wars go on during this period, most notably the Anglo-French War (1294-1303) and The Scottish Wars of Independence (First War: 1296-1328). 
> 
> During this claim period, England owns Gascony, a province in southern France. The French King declares English rights to it forfeit after other disagreements, and that's how the Anglo-French War starts. 
> 
> The King of France: Philip IV. The King of England: Edward I. The Count of Flanders: Guy of Dampierre. Heir to the English throne: Edward (confusingly, I've tried to differentiate as clearly as possible). 
> 
> Names: I use Léa for Belgium (i.e. Flanders), Jan for Netherlands and Alastair for Scotland.  
> Physical ages: Francis looks 14, Arthur 13, and Léa 11.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

July 1294  
Dover

Green. Léa was wearing green again.

He was sure it was becoming a habit of hers – the last time they'd met she'd worn a similar colour too. Today it left them in the interesting position of almost matching, Arthur realised, thanks to the shade of his cloak.

It made her only too easy to pick out from the throng of people milling about the market, the cloth far too rich in texture and colour for the average peasant, and he wondered if she knew how obviously apart from them she seemed. Thankfully, she'd tucked herself in against a stall, which at least meant a few eyes slid past her. She still looked far too moneyed for her own good, though, especially as she had a purse dangling from the woven belt around her surcoat. On top of that she appeared to be _alone_. Part of him resisted gritting his teeth as he weaved his way through the crowd towards her.

Honestly, what if someone had tried to pick-pocket her?

"You're by yourself,” were the first words out of his mouth when he drew level with her.

Her chin lifted, the two delicate little braids plaited into her hair on either side of her face swinging, and he was greeted by a vibrant smile. "Arthur! Good morning."

He held back a sigh. “Good morning,” he returned politely. “You’re rather earlier than I thought you'd be.”

“I suppose so. Or perhaps you're late,” she joked, eyes shining. Arthur snorted.

“Hardly, but you must have had an easy crossing. You weren't expected until this afternoon. It was only by chance that your note reached me before I went out riding.”

She nodded. “There was a favourable wind so we arrived with spare time for once.”

“Enough time to slip your chaperone, clearly,” Arthur said, circling back to the absence of any nobles or handmaidens at her side.

Lea only smiled. “I would have made time for that even if I was late. This time I didn’t really have to, though. They were so busy with unloading things that nobody really noticed when I left.”

“You’d be safer if you were accompanied.”

“Well I knew it wouldn’t be for very long, and now you’re accompanying me, so it’s fine!”

A frown threatened to overtake his features. “In the current climate, you can’t be too careful.” Her eyebrows lifted just a touch and she gave a questioning hum. Arthur finally gave in to his sigh. “You stand out. You look far richer than most and if anyone had heard you speak it would be clear you weren’t English. What if someone had thought you were French? I am at war with him now, Léa.”

Léa expression instantly softened.

“I appreciate the concern, really, thank you,” she said sincerely. “It was only a few minutes, though…and I would hope no-one would presume I was French, especially since the accent is quite different. Francis still can’t mimic it if he tries, no matter how I teach him.”

Half wanting to argue that that might not have been enough, Arthur begrudgingly relented.

“I suppose,” he allowed.

Léa smiled gratefully before perking up once more. “Anyway, we’ve got nicer things to talk about than Francis and the war. They told me the engagement is to be made official this month, isn’t it?”

His own small smile appearing alongside hers, Arthur nodded. “I believe so.”

He stepped back into the crowd, beckoning her to follow as he did, and she fell easily into step beside him as they began to wander between the market stalls.

“It’ll be so lovely to have a marriage after so long,” she enthused. “The Count’s daughter is truly sweet, so I just hope Edward likes her when they meet.” Her eyes flitted across a stall, gleaming with brooches, as they passed. “Princes do tend to be hard to please.”

“I’m sure he’ll think she’s charming young lady. Better to use our energy making sure no-one puts up a fuss and derails the whole thing.” _No-one_ looking keenly like the pompous git next door in his head. “You haven’t heard anything about what Francis has been up to lately, have you?” he added, quite willing to take any information he could get, as they continued to walk across the cobblestones.

“Oh Arthur, look!”

Look he did, except Léa suddenly seemed to have vanished.

He backtracked, head turning left and right, until he caught sight of her once more, ducking through a tiny gap in the crowd. With a huff, he followed after her.

Slipping through the throng, he could hardly summon surprise when he found she’d stopped at a stall laden with cloth. She stood before it, hands folded in front of her as she gazed down at the various materials and colours, her eyes practically sparkling.

“Aren’t they wonderful?” she gushed.

Unable to quite summon her enthusiasm, he simply nodded. Somehow he didn’t think he’d be getting an answer to his question. Instead he watched her look over the various lengths of cloth, idly noting that the vendor seemed to be selling sections of decorative ribbon too.

It was only in staring at the strips of fabric that he noticed what _hadn’t_ been there to notice that morning, though, making him glance back to Léa. Sure enough, there was no ribbon settled in her curls.

“Where’s your ribbon?”

Léa head lifted and her hand seemed to instinctively go with it, settling over the spot in her hair where a ribbon would normally have sat.

“Oh, the wind caught it on the way over,” she explained. “We were a little rushed in leaving and I suppose I didn’t tie the knot carefully enough. One minute it was there and the next it was in the water.” She tried for a smile but it didn’t match the subdued way her arm dropped back to her sides. “It’s a shame. It was one of my favourites.”

Arthur glanced silently between her and the ribbons. There seemed, to him, to be a very simple solution.

With a heavy exhale, he began fishing for silver. It took barely a moment to gather a few sterling from his own purse, and even less time to summon the vendor of the stall. Only too soon, he was being handed a length of dark green ribbon, the white stitching running along its edges shining in the late morning sun.

Then, not quite meeting her eyes, he held it out to Léa.

“Here,” he mumbled. “It’s strange to see you without one.” She was staring at him. He could feel her eyes, focused intently on his face. He tried valiantly not to squirm. When he finally dared to look, though, her lips were softly parted and her cheeks dusted with the faintest pink. He swallowed. “I’m sure you can tie it far better than I can.”

Her smile bloomed. “Oh Arthur, thank you.” At last she reached out a hand to slide it from his fingers. “It’s such a beautiful colour – and one that will remind me of you!” she told him cheerfully, slipping it into her hair. She tied it with practised fingers, far more deftly than he ever could have done, and within seconds it was carefully settled within the golden strands.

“How does it look?”

“Much more like you,” he said, satisfied.

The appraisal got him a tinkling giggle as she smoothed down the strands around the fabric, tucking the ends carefully into place.

It was only when she adjusted the ribbon one last time, her sleeves slipping just a touch despite the buttons at her wrists, that Arthur was distracted by a spot of colour. There was a piece of dark leather poking out, worked into a point, and it took Arthur a beat to realise he was looking at the end of a tiny, likely custom made, scabbard. She was carrying a _dagger_ of all things.

“Where on earth did you get _that_?” he demanded. Or perhaps the better question was _when_ because she certainly hadn’t had it the last time they’d met. Léa, blinking slightly at the change of topic, followed his gaze to the little dagger. The spot of pink in her cheeks darkened.

“My brother gave it to me.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted. “Is he so worried about you?”

“…I wouldn’t say worried. Perhaps a little _concerned_ ,” she corrected with a quiet smile.

“And what did you do to cause such concern?” he pressed.

“That’s quite the accusing tone you’ve got, you know,” Léa returned, but her smile remained. “It’s really nothing, though. Jan’s always been overly protective…he just doesn’t want me getting into trouble.” When she didn’t go on, Arthur waited, folding his arms pointedly. Eventually, shaking her head at him, she went on. “It’s all the bickering Francis and I have been doing lately,” she confessed at last. “I’ve tried to minimise it but it’s difficult…I think Jan believes things can only get worse—he never has been very positive.”

“You’re not pleased with Francis, then?” Arthur inferred.

“Would you be if he was interfering with your trade laws?” She sighed quietly. “It was bad enough when there were only a few new rules but with your merchants now being banned _and_ the import of English wool being forbidden, half my industry is struggling to stay afloat. It’s just not fair. The weavers especially are suffering and…and Francis will not listen to me.” A frown creased between her eyebrows. “He just dismisses whatever I bring to him, and he certainly doesn’t take up the issue with his King.” Her shoulders slumped slightly. “Anyhow, I think Jan began to worry I’d get myself into trouble over it.”

“I see,” he muttered, letting his arms fall back to his sides, but the line of tension in his jaw remained.

Léa went back to looking at the fabrics, reaching out to brush her fingers over the nearest cloth as another long exhale left her lips. Her thumb traced the curve of a carefully inked curl.

“It’s a lovely pattern,” she murmured, eyeing it in a way he never could, in a way that told him she could recreate it thread by thread if she wanted.

He hummed. “Quite – I believe it all arrived from Milan yesterday morning.”

She nodded, perusing it for a moment longer with a small smile. “It’s nice, but very different to Flemish.”

Arthur snorted bitterly. “Yes, unsurprisingly that’s in short supply at present. I’ll have to get you to bring a few yards next time you make the crossing. The cloth is vastly superior.”

Léa’s laugh was sudden and bright, her usual good cheer resurfacing. “So the dagger isn’t proper but you’re keen to turn me into a smuggler? Somehow those two ideals don’t line up.”

“It barely counts as smuggling in such small qualities, plus it’s Francis's laws you’d be breaking, so I’m inclined to ignore them entirely—and the dagger _isn’t_ proper,” he finished shortly, his frown returning. “You ought never be in a situation where you’d have to use one.”

“I don’t plan to be,” Léa reassured him as she let the cloth slip from her fingers. “It’s just an insurance.”

“Be that as it may, if you’re going to such lengths worrying about the situation and what repercussions you might face, I’m surprised you came at all.”

Her smile dimming just a touch, Léa shrugged. “What Francis doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Arthur scoffed. “Oh he’ll know, he’s always finding things out. He’s a bloody menace.”

“You might be right,” she conceded, “but I doubt he’ll care about me visiting enough to be too angry. I’ll apologise afterwards…maybe. But it’s alright – your people might be forbidden to trade in Flanders, but technically there’s nothing to say _I_ can’t be _here_.”

“There’s nothing _yet_ ,” Arthur muttered cynically. Whether it really counted as cynicism when it would undoubtedly come true was debatable though. “Once news of our alliance gets out it could bring all hell down upon us.”

For once, Léa didn’t seem inclined towards optimism either because she tilted her head in agreeable acknowledgement, sighing quietly. Their conversation seemed to lull in the face of the words, the rolling babble of sound from the market filling the gap instead.

“…Do you truly believe we’ll get away with it?” Léa asked finally, breaking the quiet.

Arthur could only sigh.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “It’s certainly not going to make us any friends in the French court, there’s no doubt about that.”

“I don’t think Francis will be too pleased himself. Nor do I really think his King will stand for it. It’s as you said, the pair of you are at war.”

“I’m not sure they’d stand for it even if we weren’t, but we can only wait and see what happens.”

He felt her eyes on him too keenly for a second before she nodded, taking a steadying breath, and looked away to the stalls again.

“Well, either way I’m sure you’ll be pleased,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

“If it all goes well, we’ll have the alliance we wanted. If it doesn’t,” she continued, a half smile appearing on her lips as she glanced his way, “at least you’ll have managed to anger Francis in the process.”

“You’ll forgive me if I see no problem with that.” He shook his head, thinking back on the last time he and Léa had quarrelled with Francis at the same time. Irritation pricked at him as he recalled the defeat. “It will do him good to have his pretentious feathers ruffled. What was it he said back in 1214? ‘Perhaps you’ll fare better next time’ or some other patronising nonsense. I’ll make him _eat_ those bloody words.”

Léa lifted and dropped a shoulder.

“I can’t say I’d mind too much, but I don’t know that I can agree completely.” Her gaze didn’t return to his, instead trailing away towards the far end of the market where the port lay, and out towards the water beyond. “You don’t have to face him the way I do.”

Arthur’s lips pursed, and finally silence fell between them.

There was nothing he could say to argue with that.

__

_Dear Arthur,_

_I think we may have underestimated how much anger the engagement would cause. I wish I could start with something more pleasant, like asking how you’ve been, but everything seems too horrible for it._

_King Philip summoned the Count, his sons, and his young daughter to Paris. They were all imprisoned. There are rumours beginning to circulate that Guy and his sons are to be released, but I’ve heard nothing about Philippa. People are saying that they have all been forced to renounce their ties with your King, though, with the English entirely. I have no doubt that Philip has forced the termination of the engagement, and I’m worried that’s why nobody speaks of Philippa. If he keeps her alone locked up, they can never go back on their word. The marriage can never go ahead. My worst fears will be confirmed if they return without her._

_In light of what everyone is saying, though, I thought I had better write soon. If the situation gets any worse, I might find myself forbidden to do so._

_I hope you haven’t had any such frustration, and that this won’t add to_ _it_ _if you have,_

_Léa._

__

_Dear Léa,_

_I can only presume your sources were correct, since the word amongst my noblemen is that the engagement has been terminated, along with any form of alliance._

_It is perhaps best that you won’t be able to write, though, as I won’t be present at court for some time. Things grow worse between Francis and I, unsurprisingly, and my brother has started making a fuss about it on Francis’s behalf. I’m going to meet with Alastair to try and put a stop to such nonsense, but it means I’ll be away for a good deal of time, and it may yet proved fruitless thanks to Francis's meddling._

_In this sense, the abandoned engagement is just one frustration among many,_

_Arthur._

__

_Dear Arthur,_

_I’m certain you’ve gone away by now and that this letter won’t find you in any hurry, if it finds you at all before it’s irrelevant. I’m sorry to hear about your quarrel with Alastair, though._

_I had some good news when the Count did return with his sons but, as I suspected, Philippa has remained a prisoner in Paris. Unfortunately, things continue to be tense between Guy and King Philip too. Every few days since his return, the King seems to reduce_ _the powers Guy is granted_ _, rescind his privileges and place further restrictions on trade. A new law was passed this month to say no foreign currency can be circulated within the county. Despite trying to remain positive, I can’t help but worry it will bring trade to a standstill._

_Even worse, Francis has expressed a wish to come and see me personally. He didn’t say what he wanted to discuss, but I doubt it will be pleasant. I can only hope you are faring better,_

_Léa_.

__

May 1296  
Lille

She wasn’t impatient by nature.

She didn’t mind the world at its slowest, happy to stop and watch things unfold like flowers in the morning. Perhaps that was why she’d always enjoyed whiling away afternoons down by rivers.

Deûle was one of the loveliest in her possession, the water a deep, dark green, the rushes lining its banks a pretty, waving distraction from the days thoughts. The trees scattered along its banks provided the perfect dappled shade, hanging their branches low over the water as it wound lazily passed, and she perched on the gentle rise of the slope before the bank admiring all the verdant green.

The picture was easy to sink into when contently lulled by the sun's afternoon warmth. With such a beautiful corner of the world all to herself, waiting should have been perfectly pleasant…and yet.

Léa sighed quietly, trying not to fidget as the breeze played with the currents in the river and the ends of her hair alike. She had to see the positives. Worry inducing Francis’s visit might be, but at least he was predictable…predictably late too. She supposed he was the one coming to her, stuck with the long journey. Ordinarily, she’d meet him in the centre of Lille, but today the river just beyond the town had held a great, more calming, appeal. That and the last time they’d been, Francis had seemed…overly fond of the place. While she hated to be so openly suspicious of him, that never did bode well for her.

“You certainly picked quite the spot.”

She jumped, straightening up sharply as the familiar voice cut through her thoughts. A second later, gentle fingers landed on her shoulder and she turned, immediately greeted by Francis’s smile.

“I hope I didn’t leave you waiting too long. I’m afraid I had to make a stop or two along the way,” he apologised while she got hurriedly to her feet.

“No, not too long at all,” she assured, watching as he brushed a few escaping strands of hair from his eyes. He seemed much the same as always, hair pulled gently back, in familiar blue, but unlike normal silence unfurled between them. Eventually, Francis raised an eyebrow.

“Do I not get a proper greeting after all these years?” She hummed non-committally in return, looking away. A soft huff of laughter passed his lips. “Ah, I see you are feeling rebellious. Here I almost didn’t believe all the talk at court.”

A surprised frown overtook her face. “I’m not being rebellious.”

“Are you not? Then they are all being dreadful liars – but if you’re not perhaps we can for sit amicably for a while, hm?” he suggested, offering her that same sunny smile as always.

This time, she mirrored it somewhat. “It would make a nice change.”

“How cruel, you make it sound as if I am constantly bullying you. I think we both know you’re thoroughly spoiled at times,” he said, the words light, and as always she was struck by the dichotomy that was her relationship with him. When had that begun, she wondered.

Once, she’d only known the sweet side.

Still, she couldn’t, and wouldn’t ever want, to deny it. _Personally_ , she rarely wanted for anything…but that was hardly the point. “I suppose that’s true,” she admitted, though.

“Mm, and speaking of such things, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this before.” He reached out as she looked curiously up at him and gave the lightest of tugs on the end of her ribbon. Oh. She’d worn the one Arthur had given her. “How very pretty, wherever did you get it?”

Part of her wanted to lie, but she was already pausing and there was no doubt he’d see through it.

“I got it the last time I was in England.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Which was when, precisely?”

“A while ago now,” she answered vaguely, dropping down onto the grass again and folding her legs neatly beneath her. He shook his head, but took a seat beside her.

“You didn’t consider that _going_ was a little rebellious?”

“Things didn’t seem quite so bad then,” she defended. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, if you’re so adamant that none of this is you being rebellious, what is it?”

Setting her hands in her lap, she considered the question.

“…unhappiness, I suppose, and a little caution.”

“Due to what?”

“Your king.”

“ _Our_ king,” Francis corrected, though his lips twitched. “And you wonder why they speak of rebellion.”

“…He’s being unfair,” Léa said, quietly changing topic instead of fighting the words. “The people can barely survive under his laws, and certainly not under the taxes. That would be hard enough _alone_ but with all the restrictions on trade, it’s becoming impossible.”

“It is an unfortunate aspect of the current climate,” Francis granted, but his tone remained as blasé as usual. “But it is best handled sensibly and with patience—I would not call the nonsense with Arthur good sense. I know you are clever enough to understand that, though, so I’m sure I’ll hear no more about it.”

“But the weavers _need_ the wool now or none of them will make a penny,” she protested.

“There is other wool in the world.”

“But it’s not as good! You know it isn’t.”

“Léa, come, it is not something up for discussion,” he returned, his manner suddenly short as he held up a hand to stop her. He let it fall back to his side, beginning to frown, as her mouth snapped shut. “It cannot be changed. Such times are always difficult. One must simply strive to live through them. We are at war, after all.”

She wasn’t sure what response she’d hoped for, but it wasn’t that. Fighting passed the lump forming in her throat, Léa slowly shook her head. “ _You_ are at war. I have no such grievance.”

Francis sighed, the sound equal parts pitying and patronising. Were she not so used to it, it might have summoned a visible reaction.

“You have always been a caring girl,” he murmured. “It is wasted on Arthur…You don’t realise who you are truly involving yourself with when you ally with him in such a way.”

This time she did frown.

“That’s just your opinion, Francis,” she said quietly. “I know him perfectly well…much better than you think I do. I always have.”

When he looked over at her, his blue eyes seemed suddenly flat. “Do you know where he’s been in his absence, then?” he asked. “Do you know what he’s done?”

“…He’s away. He told me so in his last letter.”

Her words prompted a soft chuckle.

“How very like him; part of the truth, but not the whole truth.” Francis tilted his head and she tried to brush off the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Would you like the whole truth?” Somewhat hesitantly, Léa nodded. “He has been up north, _slaughtering_ people.”

Despite the warmth from the sunshine, the whistle of the wind managed to chill her right through in that moment. It sent the long grass along the river bank waving as she curled inward, staring down at her lap.

She wasn’t stupid or blind. Arthur and his brothers _did_ have fights, ones she knew to be unpleasant to the point of bloody at times. She also knew war was war. Neither Francis nor Arthur were strangers to fighting in it…but there was always a line. There was always a _reason_ , be it for honour or self-defence or to take back what had always been theirs in the first place.

Slaughter was something entirely different.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

Francis laughed openly, the sound carrying over the open water before them. “Your naivety is charming, my dear – but you do not have to believe me.” He caught her eyes again. “The truth remains the truth even if you avert your eyes from it, no?”

“How would you have heard of it, even if it was true?”

“From his brother, of course,” Francis replied easily. “Alastair has been writing to me in the few spare moments he gets between their fights. Still, you can ask Arthur yourself the next time you meet…though I imagine I will see him before you do.”

She properly lifted her head again. “You will?”

Francis gave an affirmative hum, nodding. “I will be be going south, to Gascony, and I doubt any bickering with his brothers will keep Arthur from meeting me on the battlefield.”

Her shoulders slumped, a now centuries old weariness weighing heavily upon them. “Sometimes I worry you two will spend all eternity fighting.”

Francis just smiled. “Well, you will have a great deal of time to get used to it, at the very least.”

Léa’s frown only deepened. “That’s really not what I want.”

“Well then,” Francis began, pushing himself up to rise to his feet once more, “do not worry your pretty head thinking about it.” He held out a hand to help her up as always and, though she considered his outstretched fingers for a second too long, she took it. “Why don’t we walk back into town. Will you stay awhile in Lille as I’m here?” he asked as she smoothed out any creases in her surcoat.

Feeling only mildly apologetic, she shook her head. “No, no I’m afraid I return to Ghent tomorrow.”

Once again, there was a flicker in his expression, something pinched catching at the edges.

“Ah, I see, back to that troublesome Count of yours.”

“He’s only fighting for what he thinks is right, for what people _need_ ,” she justified.

“You have the funniest ways of describing treason, my dear,” he retorted, fixing her with a pointed look. Her eyes fled to the river instead, and one last time she appreciated the abundance of green. More than anything, the calming picture helped bolster her nerve. She took a breath.

“…Do you know what will happen to him, Francis? The Count?”

Francis sighed. “I’m sure he will be summoned to Paris again. You know as well as I do that he has a stubborn streak, though – a little like someone else I know,” he murmured, shaking his head at her. “But tell me, do you really think he will go?”

Léa knew the answer. Where their honour or pride was concerned, men never did budge.

“…and if he doesn’t?”

“Then there will be…consequences, as there always are with such things.”

Consequences. Léa swallowed. Consequences she very much did not want to face alone.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, while Francis is being deliberately manipulative when talking to Léa, he's also not lying about Arthur's activities. He's referencing the English attack upon Berwick-Upon-Tweed, Scotland, in March 1296. The town was ordered to surrender and when they refused, an estimated 10,000 Scots were killed. Francis knows all about it because he has frequent exchanges with Alastair thanks to the newly born Auld Alliance, signed in 1295.
> 
> Also there's one deliberate historical inaccuracy here. I call the future Edward II a Prince to set him apart from his father. At this point, no heir to the English throne had been a Prince as the 'Prince of Wales' title didn't exist. However, Edward does become the first Prince of Wales in 1301, so it's only a small cheat.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are thoroughly appreciated! I'm [anglaisaph](http://anglaisaph.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to drop by, and thanks for reading! ❤


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